


I'll Darn You Back Together

by ScribblesOnMapleLeaves



Series: Mandatory Witcher Fics [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Being a Little Shit, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Takes Care of Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Light Angst, M/M, Oblivious Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, geralt of rivia is a drama queen but only in his head, its cannon read the books, no beta we die like renfri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:33:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26019607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribblesOnMapleLeaves/pseuds/ScribblesOnMapleLeaves
Summary: Five Times Jaskier Took Care of Geralt and One Time Geralt Asked.Or, the second of my Mandatory Witcher Fics:2) The Sick Fic:Self explanatory. Someone gets sick (or, alternatively, injured). The other helps them. Usually it’s Geralt and the ‘sick’ is because of a potion. Or too many potions. Sometimes it’s Jaskier, and then the ‘sick’ is because of a sex drug or sex plant spores or a sex potion or a sex curse, etc. Then it’s just smut and awkward mornings. Always fun.I may change the tags as I write more - not sure which way I want to take this one quite yet.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Mandatory Witcher Fics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1849921
Comments: 27
Kudos: 172





	1. All The Pins Inside Your Fretted Head

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick note: the summary for each category or trope isn't exactly the summary for my specific piece of writing. I'll put anything you need to know about mine above the category in my summary section. I'm sorry if that's confusing - the way I wanted to format it didn't work with the ao3 software. Basically, this series is about putting a fun little twist on the classics, so things might not follow the same plot line as these sort of fics usually do. The main idea will remain more or less the same, though. That being said, let me know if you think of a trope you want me to do! If it's not already on my list, I'll add it to the queue. 
> 
> TTFN!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! 
> 
> Right now, this fic is very Family Friendly. There is exactly one (1) swear word. There is no violence - I mention injures, but I basically give no detail. I'll let you know when/if that changes. It probably will, just a heads up. I've got two ideas for this one, and now I have to decide whether or not I should be mean...
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy! Carry on.

“You know, Geralt, I wish you'd be more careful.” The bard was fluttering around as though he were a concerned pigeon, his hands bushing almost-touches along the gash across Geralt’s ribs.

“I’m fine,” he grunted. He was, really. Or, at least, he would be if Jaskier could stop fussing and let him sleep for a few hours. He moved to bat a hand away.

Jaskier looked unconvinced. His eyebrows had a nasty habit of creeping up his forehead, announcing to the world exactly how much of an idiot he thought you were. “Oh yeah?” In a quick motion, his hand shot out and jabbed Geralt in the side. The witcher hissed at the contact, his teeth grinding together. “Really, Geralt. I don’t know why you bother lying to _me_ , you know I never believe you. If you were well and truly fine, as you say you are, you would have stopped my hand - not to mention the very telling sign that you hissed in pain, something you claim not to even feel, when I touched that wound.”

Geralt would count himself lucky if his teeth weren’t ground into dust by the end of the night. He wondered if they’d grow back. He’d ask Lambert, the next time their Paths crossed. That fucker was bound to have lost a tooth at one point. “Jaskier.”

“Yes, yes, I know. You’re a mighty witcher, you can survive anything. What need do _you_ have for a simple bard with a voice of gold and a propensity for - oh, stop glaring at me like that. Look, Geralt, I know you’ll heal, but you’ll heal _better_ if you let me clean this for you. Just get in the bath, you brute, before it gets cold.” Geralt sighed. It wouldn’t hurt, he supposed, to give in to the bard. And he wasn’t one to turn down a hot bath.

The water was still steaming when he sank into it, the muscles in his legs relaxing in the warmth. And then Jaskier’s hands were running through his hair, pulling the blood and gore from between the strands. He very carefully didn’t lean into it, but all of his self control wouldn’t have been enough to stop his eyes from closing, a small sigh escaping his lips. When he was clean, the blood carefully wiped away from the cut on his ribs, Geralt let himself be pushed to the bed. Jaskier was still talking, about some bardic competition he’d won two years ago, as he lined up bandages, salves, and potions on the bedside table. Geralt let himself sink into the sound of his friend’s voice and the stinging sensation that came with his usual salve.

Both were oddly comforting to the witcher - he’d never admit that to anyone, much less Jaskier, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t true. The salve was a reminder that he was alive, the slight discomfort grounding. Jaskier’s voice… well, Geralt didn’t have an explanation for that one. The bard had simply walked into his life and went about carving out a spot for himself until Geralt couldn’t remember what it had felt like before they’d met.

All too soon, Jaskier was done. A neat, clean bandage was wrapped around Geralt’s scarred chest, the blood flow staunched by salves and pressure. “Right, then, that’s all good and taken care of,” the bard was saying. “You should probably get some rest, now. You take the bed, yeah? If I can just steal a blanket or two I should be fine on the floor. I wouldn’t want you to injure your side by -”

“You don’t need to sleep on the floor, bard. We’ll both fit in the bed.” Jaskier blinked, opening his mouth. Geralt cut him off. “My side will be fine, regardless of whether or not we share.”

“Oh, well, all right then, if you’re sure. I didn’t want to impose, or assume, or something similarly dissatisfactory - considering you’re the one who paid for this room and got hurt in the process, it didn’t seem fair to ask…” He trailed off.

Geralt grunted. “It’s not like we’ve never slept in the same bed before.” Jaskier’s eyes crinkled into a smile that might not have been visible to the human eye as he stepped out of his shoes. Geralt lay down carefully. Despite his flippant tone, he didn’t really want to aggravate the gash more than he had to. He turned to face the wall as Jaskier climbed under the covers next to him. “Besides, you’re more annoying after you’ve slept on the floor. This is the lesser evil.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try to upload the next chapter tomorrow. It... might be longer? I'm not sure how much I like the brevity of this one, but it was a good place to stop. Anyway, I hope you liked it! And, as always, I'm sorry for any typos. Let me know what you think!


	2. And Your Muttered Whens and Hows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt gets into a fight with a drunk guy and comes away with a knife wound. Jaskier is outraged on behalf of his witcher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's more swearing in this chapter. I think it's safe to assume there will always be swearing. There's also, like, a little bit of violence. Not a lot, not a done of gory details.

Geralt didn’t think he was the one that needed to be more careful. Sure, he ended up bloody and bruised on a daily basis, but that was in his job description. More often than not, the blood wasn’t even his. 

Jaskier, on the other hand, had no reason for all the trouble he stumbled into. He, too, was bloody and bruised almost as much as Geralt was - or at least once a week - and he was a bard. An idiot, and a bit of a masochist, but just a fucking  _ bard _ . 

If either one of them needed to be more careful, it wasn’t the witcher. 

Exhibit A: Tuesday night. It wasn’t uncommon for Jaskier to play for hours when they stopped at an inn. The longer he played, the more food they had in their packs when they set off the next morning. Still, Geralt didn’t like it. Most of the patrons were drunk by the end of the night, and that made them dangerous. When he was able to, Geralt stayed in the tavern for as long as Jaskier played -  _ not  _ because he liked the bard’s voice. He just didn’t want to deal with an injured Jaskier’s constant complaining the next day. 

Apparently, the bard had other plans. Most likely, Geralt thought, plans specifically designed to ruin his life.

Everything, for once, was going fine. Jaskier’s audience, while drunk, was more polite than Geralt had any reason to expect. No one had even thrown anything. Jaskier was clearly enjoying himself, too. He was still performing, his face carefully melded into his usual smile, but Geralt could tell the difference. He  _ smelled _ of joy, and alcohol, and the hint of lust that was always there. Tonight, at least, his smile wasn’t fake. 

And then, as Jaskier started a slow song, someone noticed Geralt. It was nothing. It  _ should _ have been nothing. The man, stinking of ale and vomit, shot the witcher a dirty look as he stumbled past the corner. “Don’t know why they let the likes a’ you in here. Fucking witchers - you animals would stay the fuck away from us humans if I had any say.” It was probably meant to be mumbled, but the man was so drunk he was tripping over his own feet. His voice carried over the quiet tavern. 

Jaskier’s head snapped towards them, his body instantly tense, the smile gone. Geralt sighed. In the next moment, the bard had crossed the room to brandish his lute at the drunk’s nose. “That  _ witcher  _ has more honor than you ever will, you oversized maggot.” 

“Jaskier.” Geralt put his hand on his arm. “It’s not worth it.” 

“It is  _ absolutely _ fucking worth it, Geralt. This - this  _ mandrake mymmerkin _ needs to learn his goddamn place!” Someone gasped. Geralt groaned, fighting the urge to drop his head into his hands. 

“The fuck you call me, peacock?” The man didn’t wait for his answer, instead just swinging for Jaskier’s nose. 

His fist collided with Geralt’s palm. For an instant, the witcher savoured the look of surprise that crossed behind his eyes before he tossed him to the side. 

And that was it. Or, at least, it should have been. Jaskier was ruining his damn life, that was sure. “Hah!” the bard shouted. “That’s right, you yaldson! You - you dalcop! You cumberworld! You’re to fucking  _ scared _ to fight him, aren’t you? Oh, me, you’ll pick on, sure, but the  _ witcher _ you were bad mouthing can kick your ass without even breaking a sweat -” Geralt could smell the anger and aggression radiating from the man on the floor. Jaskier, apparently, couldn’t. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled, “shut  _ up _ .” It was too late. The drunk charged at Geralt, intent on destruction. Geralt blocked a punch with his forearm, but he wasn’t paying attention to the other hand. He was too slow - tired, unprepared, and slightly intoxicated as he was, he hadn’t noticed the knife until it was slashing across his shoulder blade. 

His face twisted in pain as the metal sliced through his muscles. A red-hot anger boiled in his stomach. In a swift, fluid movement, his knuckles connected with the man’s nose. He toppled, crashing back into a table, and didn’t get up. 

Geralt’s gaze swept across the room. No one looked up from their drinks. “Come on, bard,” he mumbled. “Time for bed.” He could feel the cold trickle of blood running down his back. 

As soon as the door closed, Jaskier started to tug on the bottom of Geralt’s shirt, pulling the hem out of his pants. “Off, Geralt, I want to see how bad the damage was. I’m sorry - I really am, I didn’t want you to get hurt - but that idiot was asking for a bit of a dressing down. The shirt, now, please. Take it off.” Geralt let the bard pull the fabric over his head, lifting his arms to help. “Is he dead?” 

“No,” the witcher replied. “He’ll be fine. A lump, and a serious hangover, but nothing more.” Jaskier was dabbing at the cut, now, with a clean cloth he’d grabbed from the bag. 

“Well, that’s good, then, isn’t it? Not that I’d be, ah, overly saddened by his passing, but you know how it is - We wouldn’t want to get kicked out of another town. This is deep, actually, Geralt, I think we’ll need to do stitches -” Geralt groaned. “Yes, yes, you don’t need stitches, etc, etc. I remember the speal from last time. Now shut up and sit down.” He sat. 

Jaskier was, against all of Geralt’s expectations, good at stitching flesh back together. He’d done it once or twice before, when Geralt hadn’t been able to reach one of his particularly deep wounds himself. Before the bard had started following him, Geralt would usually just leave the ones he couldn’t reach and hope they’d heal on their own. Occasionally, if that might result in him bleeding out, he’d use Igni to cauterize the wound. 

He usually charred the area around it, too, when they were on his back and he couldn’t see what he was doing. He hadn’t done that since he and Jaskier had started traveling together, though. It may be faster than stitches, but it was certainly more painful. Besides, Jaskier would probably throw a fit. 

“That’ll do.” Jaskier laid a hand across the new row of stitches, sending sparks down Geralt’s spine. He tensed. 

Jaskier’s hand withdrew, the scent of guilt threading into the air, mixed with… sadness? It was an odd smell on the bard. Geralt hated it. 

There were, occasionally, nights that Jaskier would stink of negative emotions - anger, sadness, guilt, fear. After he’d been left by a lover he’d been particularly enamored with, but also seemingly at random. As the sky grew dark overhead, he would stare into the fire, or up at the stars, or down at his lute strings, lost in thought. Geralt would do anything to never smell those emotions on the bard again. 

He reached out, clasping his calloused fingers around Jaskier’s wrist. The man looked back at him, the guilt replaced with surprise. Geralt pursed his lips, pushing the words from his throat. “Thank you.” 

Jaskier’s eyebrows rose. “I thought you didn’t need my help.” 

“I don’t.”

“Right.” 

“But, still, thank you. For defending me.” If he kept talking, he feared the bard’s eyebrows would be lost to his hairline forever. 

“I got you injured. I thought you’d say it was stupid of me.” Geralt grunted. 

“It  _ was _ stupid of you.” He paused, shrugging. “Don’t do it again. But I appreciate the sentiment.” Slowly, a smile crept onto Jaskier’s face. 

“I meant it.” Geralt looked down. He didn’t want Jaskier to see the small smile that appeared on his lips, against his consent. “I probably will do it again, though. I have a habit of talking at inopportune times.” 

“Hmm.” Geralt couldn’t agree more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! 
> 
> Sorry I didn't update yesterday - my sister is moving to Boston today and we had to finish watching Sherlock before she left. I've already watched it five times, but my family is uncultured. Anyway, I'm the only one home while the rest of my family drives eight hours only to spend, like, two unpacking a moving van, so I've got time to start the next few chapters as well. I think it's safe to say I'll probably upload them daily for the next four days. 
> 
> I think, if I wanted to, I could basically connect all the works in this series into a very long, very complicated slow burn. The snippets would be out of order (like the show or The Last Wish), which could be fun, and I've already lain out how the timeline would work if I did it. Now the only question is, should I? If you have any input, let me know. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! It is, in fact, longer than the last one. Let me know what you thought! 
> 
> A glossary: 
> 
> \- Mandrake mymmerkin: A man with a short penis who can't please his wife. This was very offensive and had pretty bad consequences for using it. 
> 
> \- Yaldson: Basically, son of a whore. Not very nice. 
> 
> \- Dalcop: Dumbass. 
> 
> \- Cumberworld: Useless person who just takes up space. Again, not nice.


	3. All Your Mother's Weaves and Your Father's Threads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt overdoses on potions. Jaskier does what he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Swearing, and a lot of sensory overload. Other than that, this chapter is just as fluffy as the rest.

Geralt couldn’t see. His pupils refused to constrict, blown wide from the darkness outside. That had been necessary a few minutes ago, but now, as he stepped into the firelit tavern, he couldn’t see anything. His vision filled with blinding light. 

On its own, his lack of vision wouldn’t have been too much of a problem. He could have shuffled up the stairs, smelled his way to Jaskier and their room.

But he also had a blinding headache, painfully overworked ears, a tremor running through his arms, legs that felt like they’d been dipped into molten lead, enough nausea to last him a lifetime, and a nose that was so overwhelmed with scents that he could hardly pick out his own. The only reason he’d made it back to the inn at all was Roach. He owed the horse a whole damn barrel of carrots. 

Alright, so maybe _this_ time, he’d been a bit careless. But it wasn’t like he’d had any reason to worry - it was supposed to be an easy hunt. A simple nightwraith. Not the easiest thing he’d ever killed, but certainly no reason to go through extra precautions. 

Geralt hadn’t expected there to be five of them. _Five_. Nightwraiths were rare, usually. There weren’t that many women who were cursed and murdered under the light of a blue moon - the overly specific criteria kept the wraiths from becoming very common. Five, in the same spot, was unheard of. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what had happened there. 

He’d been quickly overwhelmed. It was dark, clouds blocking out any light from the moon - Jaskier had wanted him to wait until morning, clearly not understand the _night_ part of the word nightwraith, but Geralt had disregarded his concern, as usual. The wind made things tricky to scent, making the bodies more difficult to find. And, as he’d already mentioned, there were _five_ of them. He’d been ambushed, essentially. 

So he took all of his potions. He’d needed to. It was better to overdose than to die, after all. Or, at least, that’s what he had thought. Now, when none had worn off yet and he was a blind, aching mess, he wasn’t so sure. 

A hand closed around Geralt’s arm. He could smell Jaskier, he thought, underneath all the other smells. “Geralt?” someone asked. It sounded like the bard. He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t really sure of anything, at the moment. “Oh, _shit_ , okay, right, yes - okay. This isn’t good, Geralt, we need to get you upstairs. Come on, follow me, that’s it.” Yeah, okay, it was Jaskier. No one else could ramble the way his bard did. 

He followed the tugging on his arm, stumbling half-blind up the stairs into the - blissfully darker - corridor above. The noise subsided slightly, the smells the tiniest bit duller. His headache crept back a hair. 

And then they were in their room. He sunk to the floor, not bothering to make it to the bed. _Fuck_ , it had been ages since his head had hurt like this, like it was splitting apart at the seams. He fought the urge to cover his ears with his hands. Here, at least, no light crept up from downstairs. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked, his voice soft. “Tell me what’s wrong. Do you need a healer?” He was concerned. Geralt could hear it in his voice, deafening to his overly sensitive ears. The room stunk of it, the other smells fading into the background just a bit behind the acrid worry. 

“No,” he groaned. “I’ll… be fine. Took too many potions… just need to sleep.” The worry was still there. “Really,” he mumbled. “It hurts, but… I’ll survive.” Jaskier breathed out. It sounded like he was muffling a chuckle. 

“You’re an idiot, Geralt,” he said, lowering his voice further. It probably wasn’t audible to a human. To Geralt, it still sounded too loud, too grating. “I know you’ll survive - that doesn’t mean you’re fine, though. You’re clearly not fine. So, look, I won’t start a fire, okay? But that means I can’t see anything. Can you manage to get out of your armour yourself?” Geralt managed a nod before he realized it was useless. 

“Yes,” he said. With stiff fingers, he undid the clasps, one by one. Pulling each piece off, he lowered them to the floor as carefully as he could, and curled up tighter. 

“Okay, good, Geralt.” The bard sounded relieved. “What can I do to help? Is there some antidote you can take?” 

“Don’t have it,” he replied. “Ran out a… a while ago.” Jaskier cursed under his breath. Geralt heard him breath in through his nose in an attempt to calm himself, from...something. He couldn’t think around the pounding in his temples. 

“Fine, yes. So then sleep, right?” Geralt grunted in agreement. “Can you get to the bed? You can lean on me, if you must.” Slowly, stiffly, Geralt stood. There was something in the bard’s voice that made it easier for him to move. He could focus on that, on following his whispered orders, rather than the overload of his senses - his body's betrayal of him. He sat on the edge of the bed. 

A moment later, the bed dipped beside him as Jaskier sat down as well. He could see alright, at least, now that he was in the dark again. With careful fingers, Jaskier reached for Geralt, feeling his way to Geralt’s shoulders. 

He pulled the witcher’s head into his lap. Geralt didn’t resist. He might have, if he wasn’t so tired. 

And then, lightly, his fingers threaded through Geralt’s hair. His nimble hands pulled the pale strands loose from the strip of cloth holding them in place, gently massaging his temples and running along his scalp. It sent soft tingles down into his skin, and Geralt began to feel grounded again, as though his mind was returning to his body.

Geralt’s headache receded - not much, but enough. The sounds and smells dulled as his attention locked on Jaskier’s touch. His eyes fell closed, his shoulders relaxing into the mattress. Within minutes, he was drifting into sleep. 

At the edge of consciousness, he heard Jaskier whisper something, as though it was the beginning of a dream. “Goodnight, love. You absolute moron.” 

He wouldn’t remember in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I like this chapter, I think. It was fun to write. Maybe a little cheesy, but hey - cheese is good. We wouldn't want to sleep on the Gouda. Which, apparently, is a proper noun. Okay. Oh, and about the five nightwraiths? I absolutely do not know how nightwraiths are made. I did five minutes of research, and then gave up and made it up myself. One day I'll play the game and realize I was wrong, but that day is not today. I have to play skyrim first, anyway. That's... about all I have to say. I hope you enjoyed! Please leave a comment if you have questions, comments, concerns, or idle threats. I love to hear from you!


	4. Let Me Rob Them Of You Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is uncomfortable in crowds, and uncomfortable when Jaskier notices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I think you get the fact that they swear by now.

Geralt hated Beltane. That was just a fact - he’d hated it for as long as he could remember. The sounds and smells were always overwhelming, the bright colors too much in the midday sun. Crowds… weren’t his thing. So when Beltane came around, Geralt had a habit of booking it out of civilization as fast as Roach could carry him. 

Another fact: out of the past seven years, he’d found himself in the middle of one Beltane festival or another five times. 

Jaskier loved Beltane. And why wouldn’t he? Alcohol, people, music - all the things the bard thrived off of in one place.  _ He  _ was the reason Geralt suffered through Beltane at all, and the reason they were in Oxenfurt right now, rather than in the woods where Geralt wanted to be. 

He’d tried ditching the bard before. Just because Jaskier wanted to go, it didn’t mean Geralt had to follow him. They’d find each other eventually. But… he’d join the Wild Hunt before he’d ever admit it, but he couldn’t say no to the man. He just looked so disappointed when Geralt had told him he’d been leaving in the morning. So he hadn’t, instead wordlessly following the bard into the city and gritting his teeth against the irrational waves of panic. 

And then one time had turned into five, now six. Geralt silently cursed the bard as they wove through the colorful streets, paper streamers floating through the air and lining the cobblestones. It stank of ale, and piss, and just  _ people _ in general. He missed the mossy smell of dirt and trees. He didn’t even know where they were going - he was just following Jaskier, keeping the deep purple of his outfit in his sight in a desperate attempt to not get separated. Tracking him in the madness would be a mess, and not one he was willing to deal with. 

His head was killing him. This wasn’t a surprise. It was too damn bright, and way too fucking loud. Even by human standards, Geralt couldn’t see how anyone could find Beltane tolerable. And yet the streets were always packed. 

The crowd closed in around him. He’d lost focus for one  _ fucking  _ second - and now he couldn’t see Jaskier. The bard usually stuck out like a sore thumb in all the colors he draped over his body, but not today. The one day Geralt  _ needed  _ the help, he didn’t have it. 

He scanned the crowd, growing anxious as the seconds flew by. Desperation filled the pit of his stomach. Without Jaskier, the crowd seemed to squeeze him from all sides, the smells becoming suffocating. He couldn’t see  _ shit  _ with all the overstimulation, and his hearing as even worse. He felt blind, useless. Where was Jaskier? He needed him to - wait. 

That wasn’t right. Geralt didn’t need  _ Jaskier _ \- that wasn’t how their relationship worked. Jaskier needed  _ him _ . That’s why Geralt was looking for him. To save him, if he was in trouble. Not the other way around. Still, that didn’t change the fact that Geralt needed to find the bard. 

He cursed under his breath. There was no  _ way  _ he’d be able to, not like this. His best bet was probably going back to their camp outside the city to wait for him - Geralt may have agreed to come for a while, but he did  _ not  _ agree to stay in a Beltane-crowded tavern. If only he could find his way back out to the city gates. 

On a normal day, Geralt had trouble finding his way through the streets. He could, but only by relying on his sense of smell to guide him. He had no reason to learn the layout of  _ any  _ city, and Oxenfurt was far from his favorite. 

He spun in a tight circle.  _ Shit _ . There was no way he’d be able to navigate in these conditions. As much as he hated to admit it, he might need Jaskier, just the tiniest bit, in this very  _ specific  _ situation.  _ What do I do _ ? 

A slender hand closed around his forearm. “Looking for someone?” Relief flooded Geralt’s chest as he looked into cornflower blue eyes. 

“Jaskier.” 

“Hello, Geralt. You lost me?” 

“Hmm.” Jaskier smiled at him, still not letting go of him. 

“Well, this certainly is a role reversal. You lose track of me, for once, and I’m the one with the exceptional tracking skills.” Geralt narrowed his eyes. “You’re wondering how I  _ did  _ manage to find you, I’d imagine? It was easy - you’re the only person wearing black. Besides, witcher, you don’t exactly blend in.” 

Jaskier kept talking, but Geralt couldn’t focus. His head was killing him, and the bard still hadn’t let go of his arm. 

And then he did something _worse_. In a smooth, careful movement, Jaskier slid his hand down Geralt’s sleeve, intertwining their fingers. If Geralt let him, it was out of pure shock.

He pulled his face into a frown as he stared down at their hands, but he didn’t pull away. “What the  _ fuck  _ are you doing?” 

“I’d rather not lose you again, Geralt. This makes that easier. But, fine, if you can’t stand touching me you can just trail after me like a lost puppy some more.” Geralt just glared at him. 

It wasn’t a bad idea. Actually, the contact helped to sooth Geralt’s fragile nerves somewhat. And he didn’t want to get lost again, either. Still, he was going to add that to the ever-growing list of things he could never tell the bard. 

Jaskier pulled him through the crowd, and he didn’t resist. It  _ was  _ easier this way. Without the constant worry of getting lost, his headache pulled back an inch. Geralt let himself lose focus now that all he had to do was follow Jaskier. He still scanned the crowd, searching for potential threats, but he could practically do that in his sleep. It was more of a reflex than anything else. 

Somehow, Jaskier had become a comfort to him, in more ways than one. He’d always had trouble sleeping around humans. Inns, even in his own room, felt too public. But Jaskier was the exception. Geralt slept  _ better  _ with him nearby than he ever had on his own. Inns were even tolerable, as long as he could hear Jaskier’s heartbeat nearby. 

The bard’s voice, too, had gained a comforting quality to it. And now the feeling of his skin? His hands running through Geralt’s hair, or clasped around his wrist - 

The crowd began to thin out. Geralt looked around at the surrounging buildings for the first time in a while. They were at the city gates. He frowned at Jaskier, who still hadn’t dropped his hand. 

“You’re ready to leave already?” The bard shrugged.

“You were clearly uncomfortable. I don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want to. Besides, I’ve got a flask in my saddlebag, so it’s not like we won’t have a drink tonight.” Jaskier had noticed Geralt’s discomfort? He’d  _ cared _ ? 

Geralt wasn’t sure he liked the way that knowledge made him feel. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> I'm a terrible person. I absolutely could have done this yesterday. I didn't. 
> 
> I'm also a big fan of the idea that Geralt doesn't do well in crowds. Everybody needs some sort of weakness, you know? Anyway, as always, I hope you enjoyed! I absolutely love when someone leaves a comment! They always make my day. I hope you're all doing well.


	5. And You'll Wail, You'll Scream, but I'll Never Stop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt almost dies when he tries to fight a pack of bruxae (while drunk). Jaskier panics and refuses to leave his side as he recovers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some swearing and some descriptions of violence in this chapter - nothing too graphic.

If there was anything worse than Beltane, it was nobles. Of  _ course _ they’d send Geralt after a monster in the middle of a party - right as he’d just begun to feel the effects of the (actually quite fantastic) alcohol they’d been serving. Of fucking _ course _ it was a pack of bruxae. One would have been bad enough, but no. They were nobles, so it was a pack. Of six. 

_ Fuck _ . 

It had, surprisingly, started out fine. Geralt truly was quite drunk. Drunk enough that he’d been surprised when he’d located the cave the bruxae were hiding in within the first hour he was out. Drunk enough that he hadn’t expected to get Quen out in time to stop the first of the bruxaes’ screams. He was still alive, though, so obviously he hadn’t let them knock him down - not at first, anyway. 

He’d had everything he needed. Black Blood, vampire oil, and moon dust weren’t exactly cheap, but Geralt always made sure to stock up whenever he could. Black Blood, though, maybe wasn’t the best idea. The high toxicity just worsened the alcohol's effects, and White Honey - which he actually had this time - would just cancel it out completely. 

Still, he’d been fighting for an hour now. Even with his slowed reaction times, he would have expected at _least_ half the bruxae to be dead. None of the bruxae were dead. 

He’d fought bruxae in packs before, and they were always tricky. One bruxa was usually manageable, but add in another, and it started to get uncomfortable. What with their invisibility, super speed, and powerful lungs, it was a bad idea to turn your back to one. If only there was a way for Geralt to be facing six directions at once. 

One of the bruxae screamed. This time, Geralt didn’t make the sign in time. He slammed back into the wall of the cave, his head snapping back. He was on his knees -  _ fuck _ , that’s not good. That’s when they - yup. 

Long teeth sunk into his neck. Sharp, claw-like nails ran along his spine, drawing blood. He groaned, his vision going blurry. A hiss, like laughter, echoed in the dank space as the others approached, surrounding Geralt where he had fallen. His neck hurt where the bruxa had bitten him, the sharp aching tug of blood being pulled from his veins. 

The bruxa gagged. It pulled away, scrambling back and clawing at its throat. The others stared, ignoring Geralt. Slowly, he stood, watching with the rest of the bruxae as their companion choked on his blood, the Black Blood poison working into its system. He put a finger to his ribs. Broken, at least two of them. Great. 

The poisoned monster collapsed, shivering. A high, keening hiss stretched from its throat as it shook on the ground. And then, suddenly, it stopped. The rest of the pack turned towards Geralt. He readied himself: sword in one hand, Quen in the other. 

And then they attacked. Three were invisible before they were even in range of his sword. Another screamed. He threw out Quen, the shield flashing bright and shattering immediately as the sound crashed into it. Even with the sign, Geralt stumbled back a step with the force. 

Claws raked across his shoulder, ripping into muscle. He spun, slashing into the air behind him. He couldn’t concentrate - not with the mixture of alcohol and Black Blood working through his system. He needed to find a different way to end this fight, and fast. 

Another bruxa landed a blow across his side. Geralt felt three more ribs crack under the weight, and a stabbing pain bloomed in his chest. His vision turned black. 

_ No _ , he thought,  _ I am not going to die in this godforsaken cave. Think, you moron. You’re trained for this _ . 

He took stock of his injuries: a possible concussion, five broken ribs, three open wounds, and a punctured lung. Judging by the deep ache when he sucked in a breath, it wasn’t a small puncture. He had an hour, at most, to get to a healer. Otherwise… it didn’t matter. ‘Otherwise’ wasn’t an option. 

He scanned his memory, riffling through what he knew of Bruxae. They were a type of vampire who often appeared as a beautiful woman. That is, until they ripped your throat out with foot-long claws and razor-sharp incisors. Vampire Oil, Black Blood, and Moon Dust were all helpful when fighting them, but there was something else. Something he was forgetting…

Another scream threw him back against the wall. He fell to the ground, hardly noticing the approaching vampires. They wouldn’t try to drink from him again.  _ What am I forgetting? _ It was something simple, he knew that. Something he would have thought of already, if not for that fucking wine. Something… 

_ Fire.  _ Igni, he needed Igni. Geralt would have slapped himself if he had any energy to waste. The bruxae were getting close now, readying their claws. Geralt took a deep breath, ignoring his aching chest, and slowly lifted his arm. 

A stream of flame shot from his palm. The bruxae went up like flash paper - one second advancing on him with nails bared, the next, ash.  _ Neat trick _ . Now he needed to get back to Jaskier. Jaskier, and someone who knew how to fix a collapsed lung. 

Carefully, he lifted himself to his feet and clung to the jagged stones for support as he made his way to the mouth of the cave. Roach snorted as he flung himself up onto her back without his usual grace and control. He consoled her with a pat on the neck. 

The world swam before Geralt’s eyes as he rode slowly back towards the inn he and Jaskier were staying at. The bard should have been done performing for the noble’s party at least two hours ago, meaning he’d be back at their room - provided he hadn’t found some pretty lord’s daughter (or son) to seduce. The thought made Geralt angry. He shook it off. 

Light surrounded him as he entered the town, flooding out from the windows that lined the main street. He didn’t direct Roach. He didn’t have to. He closed his eyes and let her traverse the narrow streets without guidance. 

Jaskier was, thankfully, sitting in the tavern with a cup of ale in one hand and the arm of a serving girl in the other. She was giggling. He looked up as Geralt stumbled into the room, the door banging shut behind him. Instantly, the bard had abandoned the serving girl and his ale in favour of looping an arm gently around Geralt’s back and taking some of the witcher’s weight onto his thin shoulders. 

“What happened?” He asked, in a low voice, as they made their way towards the stairs. He reeked of worry. “And don’t just say you’re fine, Geralt, because I’ve walked beside you - or behind you, more often than not - and I  _ know  _ what you look like when you’re fine, and this is… not that.” 

Geralt grunted in annoyance, but leaned on his friend. “Got a concussion. Broke some ribs. Punctured a lung.” Jaskier sucked in a sharp breath. 

“ _ Melitele,  _ Geralt, and you’re still alive? How did that even - Geralt?” He couldn’t breath. His head fell against his chest, his vision going dark around the edges. Pain pulsed around his sternum, and the wound in his neck was starting to sting. “Shit, Geralt, okay. You’re going to be okay, witcher, just - just stay with me, alright?” He was  _ trying _ , but he could feel his consciousness slipping. The darkness pressed in further. He was drowning in it, sinking down until it was all he could see, surrounding him. He felt, as though through a dream, his legs give out. 

_ Well, shit _ . 

  * ●●



Jaskier had absolutely no clue how he’d managed to carry Geralt up the stairs and onto the bed. He must have put on some muscle since he’d last checked. Either that,or it was the adrenaline of knowing his best friend - the man he’d been pining over for ten years - was going to die if he didn’t fucking  _ hurry _ . 

He also wasn’t sure how he’d managed to find a mage, communicate what he wanted, and get them back to the room. He certainly didn’t remember doing any of that. He did, however, remember pacing anxiously as he waited for the mage - a pale woman named Lasha Mir of Kaedwen - to step away from the bed. 

“He should recover,” she had said, her tone indifferent. “He’s lucky he’s a witcher. No one else would have survived even this long.” Jaskier hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath. It was a wonder he hadn’t passed out. 

“Thank you,” he had breathed. The mage had just nodded and held out her hand for payment. 

That was two days ago. Geralt hadn’t woken up. Still, his breathing had evened out, and his wounds had all healed nicely. Only the deep punctures in his neck had scarred. Jaskier was also pretty sure his ribs had healed well, based on what he thought ribs should usually feel like. 

Jaskier was tired. He was tired, and he wanted a bowl of stew - he wouldn’t turn down some pleasant company, either, but he supposed he could live without that one, at least. But - well, maybe it was stupid, but he thought that maybe, and really  _ just  _ maybe, Geralt would want him there when he woke up. Wishful thinking, probably. And he didn’t even know if Geralt  _ would  _ wake up tonight. Or ever, but that was something he preferred not to think about. 

Fine, then. He could leave the witcher’s side for long enough to get a bowl of something hot. He’d bring one up for Geralt, too, just in case. He’d only be gone for a few minutes. Nothing would happen in a few minutes.  _ Nothing will happen _ . He stood, reaching for the door. 

“...Jaskier.” The bard spun around. His heart thudded against his ribcage as his eyes met Geralt’s golden ones - bleary, but awake. 

“Sweet Melitele, Geralt - thank the ever-loving  _ fuck  _ \- I’ve been worried sick -” 

Geralt interrupted him. He still hadn’t moved, even to pick his head up off the pillow. “How long has it been?” His voice was even grittier than usual, crusty with sleep and injury. 

“Two days, you bastard. Remind me to never let you fight bruxae again, will you?” Geralt slowly closed his eyes. 

“I need my payment.” 

“Is that all you ever think about? Really, Geralt, you were  _ this close  _ to dying and you’re worried about - yes, yes, alright, I’ll get it today, now that I know you aren’t going to just - just stop breathing, or something, if I dare to leave the room.” The witcher’s eyes flicked open again, to stare at the bard in confusion. 

“You haven’t left the room in two days? Why?” Jaskier huffed. Whether in amusement or anger, neither of them were really sure. 

“Because I was worried, you moron. I mean, I left to get food, or to check on Roach, but not for more than a few minutes, and - why are you looking at me like that?” Geralt looked away. Jaskier got the impression that he would be blushing, if he were capable. He shook the feeling off. “You must be hungry. I’ll get you something to eat, shall I?” He turned towards the door again. 

“Jaskier.” 

“Hmm?” For a moment, Geralt stared at the bard. Jaskier could almost see the gears turning in his head as he tried to decide what to say. 

“...Thank you.” Jaskier smiled. 

“Yeah, well. I figured having a witcher indebted to me isn't the worst idea in the world.” Geralt didn't know what to say to that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so maybe just don't listen to me when I promise to do things. I'll upload the next few chapters daily, my ass. Sorry. I'll be better. Although, to be fair, it was only partially my fault this time. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed! I wasn't sure I made his wounds fatal enough, but I also didn't want him to actually die... a fine line to walk. Let me know what you thought! 
> 
> And if anyone was wondering: I still haven't gotten an answer about whether or not witchers' teeth grow back. It's very frustrating, I know.


	6. Cause It's All That I Have Left

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: If you wanted this fic to be happy, just... just skip this chapter, okay? If you're reading this as part of the larger series, I PROMISE everything will work out in the long run. And if you've watched the show, you'll know more of what's going on here, and how it ends. This bit, at least, is semi-cannon compliant. So it's not, like, terribly sad. But it is a cliff hanger. And I wouldn't say it's fluffy. 
> 
> Anyway, I finally had some time (but not a lot, mind you) so I wrapped up this fic with a lovely little short chapter, and I'll start the next in the series as soon as I can. I'm gonna try to fit in a little bit of writing tomorrow, since I don't have much homework this week.

Alright. So - _maybe_ \- Geralt had found something worse than even nobles. He second-guessed that even as he thought it. But, well, it’s true that he didn’t actually die that time with the bruxae. He might now. Die, that is.

It’s funny, he thought, that his last memories were of Jaskier. Or maybe it’s sad. Either way, he wouldn’t say it’s exactly surprising. He was thinking about the bard more often than not now - had been, for almost a year. Since that day on the mountain…

_“If life could give me one blessing…”_

But he didn’t want to think about that - he didn’t want to _die_ thinking about that. Instead, he thought of the bard’s smile, his bright eyes, the way he complained about his boots constantly. He remembered the touch of his slender fingers, the soft feeling of nails on his scalp, the warmth of Jaskier’s body next to his on a cold winter night. As he lay in the back of a wagon, the rotfiend venom coursing through his veins, he thought of every time Jaskier helped him. Of every time Jaskier cleaned his wounds - stitched him up, piece by piece.

The thought crossed his mind that maybe Jaskier left a piece of himself behind, in Geralt’s very flesh, as he pulled the witcher’s skin together. Maybe Jaskier used himself as the thread. Maybe that could explain the terrible tug Geralt felt, and had been feeling for a year now. The terrible ache that was tearing him open from the inside, ripping him apart by each seam, each scar, that Jaskier had sewn into him.

And then he thought that that was ridiculous. It was something a bard would say. Jaskier would have been proud.

_Fuck_ , but he missed that bard.

And that was when it - _finally_ \- hit him. All the times he’d denied it in the past - those had been lies, nothing more. He was an idiot, for more than one reason. He should never have sent the bard away. He should have never let those words spill from his mouth. They weren’t true. They weren’t -

Pain pulled his muscles apart. His back arched. The thoughts started to slip from his mind, but he held on. This - this was important, somehow. He needed to admit this. To himself, if no one else. He needed to…

The wave of pain pulled back, barely. Geralt’s lungs filled with air again, his thoughts pulling back into focus. Everything made sense - the ache in his scars, the way his thoughts were centered on Jaskier, even now, even as he lay dying. He needed Jaskier. Jaskier… Jaskier had kept him alive, kept him together, as surely as the swords lying next to him. Better, even, now that the swords had failed him. Jaskier hadn’t, ever. No, it was Geralt who had failed Jaskier.

Another wave of pain swept through him. This time, he lay still. His mind remained clear, even as the poison had constricted his lungs, rushed towards his heart. He was tired. So, so tired. Ever since… it didn’t matter when it had started. What mattered was that it was ending, now. Darkness pulled into the edges of his vision.

_Jaskier_ , he thought. _Jaskier, please. I need you. Help… help me-_

His vision went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! All done! And we all survived - including the characters! (I know, spoiler alert) 
> 
> Feel free to leave feedback, and I'll see you... when I see you. No promises anymore, remember?


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